Mamdani you gotta do something about Heat Miser

New York City is the place to be whether you’re visiting, a born-and-bred resident, or one of the millions of transplants who came here because somebody convinced you that paying $2,400 a month for a room with one window if you’re lucky builds character.

There is something very unique about New York City weather; especially recently.

Winter is personal; game of thrones personal with the weather…but Summer?

Summer is homicidal.

And lately, I have become convinced that the weather is not naturally occurring at all. Someone is controlling it and whoever that person is has a personal problem with New Yorkers -_-

Let me tell you, how the heat starts early..not polite early, either. There is no gentle little morning period where the sun rises, the birds chirp and you get to enjoy a refreshing breeze before the day begins.

No…not here At 6 in the morning, the sun is already outside your window like a debt collector. “Good morning. You owe me sweat!”

My air conditioner has been running all night but it is no longer producing what I would describe as “cold air.” It’s producing emotional support air. Can I complain too much? Well..ehhh at least the machine is trying. I can hear it even if it is also gasping for air.

It makes that determined rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr sound that suggests something mechanical is happening but when I stand in front of it; I receive a lukewarm breeze similar to someone across the room blowing on me after drinking hot coffee.

I don’t blame the air conditioner anymore. We have been through too much together. At this point, I consider it a coworker but at home. Neither one of us wants to be here. Neither one of us is performing at full capacity. Both of us are making strange noises because of this heat. The lights occasionally flicker because apparently every person in the building has also decided that today is not the day they intend to die to heat exhaustion.

For a fraction of a second, the air conditioner stops.

Silence.

Every person in the apartment freezes; even the cat looks concerned.

Then the electricity comes back.

The air conditioner restarts.

We survive another day…

Meanwhile, the hallway has developed its own ecosystem. During the winter, I know almost nothing about my neighbors. During a heat wave, I know too much.The humidity has somehow collected every personal odor in the building and blended them into one communal fragrance.

Cooking oil.

Laundry.

Sweat.

Cigarettes.

Somebody’s incense.

Something vaguely onion-related.

A smell that I am choosing not to investigate.

And whatever apartment 3B is doing.

I don’t know what 3B is doing.

And I don’t want to know what 3B is doing.

But the heat has informed me against my will.

I take a cold shower and this seems like a reasonable solution. I turn the water as cold as possible and stand underneath it until I feel human again. For approximately four minutes, I am reborn. I step out and dry myself to put on clean clothes. I walk into the living room and immediately begin sweating again.

This is insulting. I JUST SHOWERED. There should be a grace period.

New York City should legally require a minimum twenty-minute post-shower period where your body is prohibited from producing additional moisture. I heard we got a guy solving every day problems here maybe I oughta call him.

But right now tnstead, my skin immediately begins manufacturing its own weather.

I sit in front of the fan just for the fan to move the sweat around.

Excellent…Now I am rotisserie.

New York humidity is special because it doesn’t merely surround you. It attaches itself to you.

Winter humidity allows the cold to enter your bones and establish residency.

Summer humidity climbs directly into your clothing.

You can leave your apartment looking completely normal and within three minutes appear as though you’ve been questioned aggressively under a bright lamp for several hours.

Despite my efforts, and not from a lack of trying eventually, however, I have to leave...I have to work…against my will of course but I have to work. I stand at the door for a moment. I look outside. I know what is waiting for me.

Yet still, I have the foolish thought every New Yorker has before stepping outside during a heat wave:

Maybe there’s a breeze.

There is not.

Apparently the Wind Miser has gone on vacation.

Where?

I don’t know.

Probably somewhere cool.

But I guarantee that bastard will be back in January; when the wind suddenly discovers motivation.

In August?

Nothing.

Not even a leaf moves.

In January? The wind comes around the corner at forty miles per hour and slaps you directly in the face. I guess suddenly Wind Miser has goals.

I step outside.

The sun immediately attacks.

And first of all, why is it so bright out here? New York City isn’t supposed to be this bright.

We are a city of concrete, scaffolding, questionable alleyways and emotional darkness.

We don’t need this level of illumination; this ain’t Disney. Nobody asked for Miami lighting.

I’ve considered petitioning the sun gods; honestly any of them. I’m not for anything unreasonable. I’m not asking them to extinguish the sun. I understand agriculture. I understand ecosystems. I understand that without the sun, humanity would perish.

Fine…

I would simply like a dimmer switch.

Maybe like…20 percent.

Thirty; if they’re feeling generous.

I’m willing to make offerings.

Fruit.

Wine.

A MetroCard with $2.17 left on it.

Whatever the gods require.

Because now I have to reach the bus stop; which of course there is no awning. Why would there be? That would imply the bus stop was designed for people waiting for buses. Instead, I begin searching for shade like an animal crossing the Serengeti.

Skinny tree.

Light pole.

Street sign.

The shadow of another human being.

Nothing is beneath me anymore.

You learn very quickly that a New York City street tree provides approximately six inches of useful shade and three people are already fighting over it.

Sometimes you get lucky and find one of those bus shelters with the little roof and glass walls.

At first you’d think

Salvation.

Then you realize the shelter has been positioned using advanced solar engineering so that the sun enters it from every possible angle.

The roof blocks nothing.

The glass magnifies everything.

You are now inside a greenhouse.

Congratulations! You have become a tomato.

So everyone stands behind the bus shelter in the pathetic strip of shade created by the advertisement panel.

This creates another problem…the bus driver can’t see us; now I gotta choose.

Do I remain in the shade and risk the bus passing me?

Or do I step into direct sunlight and announce my presence?

I peek around the shelter.

No bus.

Back into shade.

Peek.

Nothing.

Shade.

Peek.

Wait…is that the bus I hear?

BUS!

Suddenly six adults launch themselves from behind an advertisement like we’re conducting an ambush.

The bus driver looks alarmed yet not surprised; and I get it we look desperate.

Nobody apologizes.

It is too hot for social customs or glances; just move.

Eventually I make it to the train station, where you would think things would improve.

You would be wrong.

Some stations have gigantic fans.

This sounds wonderful until you remember what else exists in a New York City subway station. The fan don’t create fresh air. The fan redistributes existing air and that my friend…that distinction is so very important. Suddenly every molecule in the station is participating.

Urine.

Garbage.

Hot metal.

Brake dust.

Human sweat.

The drunk or junkie.

Somebody’s bebe kid not behaving.

Something dead.

Something that may become dead soon.

Someone’s extremely aggressive cologne.

And an unidentified smell coming from the far end of the platform that every New Yorker has silently agreed not to investigate.

The fan grabs all of it and says:

SHARE!

It is less like air circulation and more like the world’s dirtiest humidifier then the train arrives. Now we play one of New York City’s oldest summer games

Which Train Car Has Air-Conditioning?

This is not a game for amateurs.

You have seconds to assess the situation.

Car one: crowded.

Car two: extremely crowded.

Car three:

Almost empty.

No.

Absolutely not.

Every experienced New Yorker knows that an empty subway car during rush hour is not a blessing.

It is a warning.

Tourists see the empty car and think they’ve won.

Look at all those seats!

New Yorkers look inside and think:

What happened in there?

There are several possibilities.

The air-conditioning is broken.

There is an odor.

There is a person inside creating an odor.

There is a person inside creating a situation like maybe a very light up a spoon for recreational activities on it kind of situation.

Or some combination of the above.

You do not enter until you have gathered additional intelligence and calculated what you are willing to tolerate and how far you have to go.

Look at the people in the next car.

Are they sweating?

Are they covering their noses?

Did somebody make eye contact with you and subtly shake their head? Because that person is your guardian angel…listen to them.

I choose the crowded car.

The doors close.

Technically, the air-conditioning works.

Theoretically or emotionally or like a hallucination

I can hear it.

Somewhere above my head, cold air exists but I’m not tall enough; and judging from the guy over 6 feet’s face I’m sure he’s not feeling it either. And right now unfortunately, there are forty-seven human bodies between me and the air conditioner. We are packed together so tightly that personal space is no longer a concept; we’re close enough to share thoughts without speaking.

Someone’s backpack is against my stomach.

Someone’s elbow is near my kidney.

A stranger’s hair is touching my shoulder.

I can feel another person’s body heat without actually knowing which person it belongs to.

And then it happens.

Someone raises their arm to grab the pole.

No.

Dear God…

Please.

Sir…

Don’t!

***internal scream***

Too late.

The smell arrives.

FYI, there are people in New York City who apparently do not believe in deodorant or try some kind of special kind of “deodorant” where nothing binds to the odor (which for the record magnesium does that! Get some magnesium flakes and help spray that on and so help me God carry that bottle every where you go. It’ll bind to the odor so people around you don’t suffer but I digress).

I respect religious freedom.

I respect philosophical differences.

I respect individual liberty.

But in July and August, deodorant should be mandatory public infrastructure.

I don’t care what brand.

Stick.

Spray.

Gel.

Clinical strength.

Natural.

Unnatural.

Industrial.

Whatever works…the key phrase is that it works! So please put something under there. We are living in a society. At this point I begin breathing strategically.

Small breaths.

Controlled breaths.

I consider using my shirt as a filtration device but that’s enough because it’ll be trapped in my face inside my shirt or even mask if I tried. Even I remember my shirt has been absorbing my own sweat for forty minutes.

There are no winners here.

Eventually the train reaches my stop and I escape.

Fresh air!

Except no.

It’s still New York and now I’m back outside and this…this right here is where I encounter tourists. I love tourists…sorta. Tourists support the economy. Tourists visit our restaurants. Tourists buy souvenirs. Tourists remind us that we live somewhere people dream of visiting. But tourists have one habit that becomes extremely dangerous when the temperature exceeds ninety degrees.

They stop.

In the middle.

Of the sidewalk.

Not one tourist.

Like A Whole Family.

Six people.

Horizontally.

Like a defensive line.

And they don’t simply stop.

They stop suddenly.

I am walking behind them with the speed and emotional instability of someone trying to get to work before my internal organs boil; then everyone freezes because somebody needs to check Google Maps.

Now I am trapped. I attempt the New York maneuver.

Left.

Blocked.

Right.

Blocked.

Tiny opening between Dad and a child.

Morally questionable but I have a job to go do

I consider it.

The heat has reduced my ethical standards.

Finally I say, “Excuse me,” (or in classic New York fashion you’ll be told to move, step to the aside or some people won’t even see you at all and push through) in the particular New York tone that technically contains polite words but spiritually means

“MOVE BEFORE I BECOME A NEWS STORY!”

They move.

One of them looks offended; I don’t have time for that. And I just know later they will tell people back home that New Yorkers are rude. Which for the record, this is inaccurate. New Yorkers are kind. We are simply not nice and trust me there is a difference. A New Yorker will help you carry a stroller down three flights of subway stairs while calling you an idiot for trying to take a stroller down three flights of subway stairs; while also telling you aggressively “you’re welcome” because you were too rude and didn’t say “thank you”.

We will give water to the neighborhood stray cat.

We will leave food outside for pigeons.

We will help an elderly stranger with groceries.

We will tell you exactly which train you need, which stop to get off at and which exit will save you twelve minutes. But if you stand six people across on the sidewalk during rush hour, we will briefly wonder whether prison has air-conditioning.

Finally, I arrive at work.

I open the door.

And instantly enter December…it’s office winter a different season to prepare for with hot cocoa, hot coffee, hot cider and 3 sweaters.

The office air-conditioning works.

Oh, it works.

Apparently my home air conditioner has donated all of its unused cooling capacity to my workplace; because that’s where i want to be…

Outside: 96 degrees.

Inside: Arctic research station.

There is no middle ground in New York.

I spend the morning trying not to die of heatstroke then I spend my shift trying not to develop hypothermia. By noon, I have a sweater on.

A SWEATER.

In August.

Clients walk in from outside, sigh with relief and say, “Oh my God, it feels amazing in here.”

Yeah, ff course it does. You’ve been here eleven seconds. Give it forty minutes and then soon you will lose sensation in your fingers.

The workday ends.

I step outside.

My glasses will actually fog because the heat has been waiting for me; and not metaphorically speaking either. It’s waiting like it’s personal. It has been standing outside the building all day like “Oh, you’re done? Great. We can continue.”

Now I gotta reverse the entire journey.

Train.

Platform.

Humanity.

Bus.

Sun.

Humidity.

But New York summer has saved its final trick.

The sky gets dark.

Wind suddenly appears.

Oh, NOW you want to work.

A raindrop hits me…ok

Then another.

And without warning, the sky opens.

This is not rain…this is atmospheric violence.

For the last nine hours, the air has been collecting enough moisture to drown a small nation, and it has chosen this exact moment when I am too far from the train station and too far from the bus stop to release all of it. Everyone starts running and umbrellas appear; including the carts that sell them that always appear on every corner like it’s coffee run. How do they always have like 40 umbrella’s ready. I just saw mango on that cart a second ago.

Umbrellas turn inside out.

People scream…ok maybe not scream but go with me on this one alright. Cars drive through puddles large enough to have tides. I take shelter under scaffolding with seventeen strangers.

We are soaked.

We are sweating.

We are standing too close together.

Nobody speaks.

We have formed a temporary civilization based entirely on mutual suffering.

20 minutes later, the rain stops and the sun comes back out.

And Immediately…the temperature somehow remains exactly the same but now everything is wet…so instead of regular humidity, we have achieved Humidity Premium like an unwarranted subscription.

New York City has become a steam room.

My clothes are stuck to me. I can feel sweat beads rolling in places it shouldn’t be forming. My hair has abandoned its original design. My shoes make a noise when I walk. I have stopped caring what I look like and snarl with a resting B face.

By the time I finally reach my building, I am no longer the person who left that morning…I have seen things. I climb the stairs. The hallway smell greets me like an old friend with new smells I don’t want to know about from my neighbors. 3B has apparently cooked again. I unlock my apartment. For one beautiful second, I allow myself hope because the air conditioner has been running all day…surely the apartment will be cold.

Maybe even chilly.

Perhaps I will walk inside and think, Oh, I should turn this down.

I open the door.

Warm air touches my face.

I stare at the air conditioner.

The air conditioner stares back.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“You had ONE JOB!!!!!!”

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I put my hand in front of the vent and lukewarm. The machine has accomplished nothing. But neither have I, really…so perhaps we shouldn’t judge each other.

I take another cold shower. I sit directly in front of the fan wearing the least amount of clothing legally permissible in my own home. I hold a frozen water bottle against my neck. I briefly consider climbing inside the refrigerator and putting the food outside; but knowing my luck it would rot by the time I come. I digress..not all the way into the fridge..just like my upper body. I remember that refrigerators require airflow and I don’t want my obituary to say I was killed trying to become a rotisserie chicken in reverse; doesn’t sound cool. Instead, I open the freezer and stand there. The refrigerator begins beeping.

I close it…selfish appliance. It continues beeping. I open it again. “Don’t judge me.”

Beep.

“I pay your electric bill.”

Beep.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

This is where I realize the heat has finally won.

I am arguing with an appliance who is clearly winning. Outside, I hear thunder. Maybe another storm is coming. Maybe the temperature will drop. Maybe Wind Miser has returned from vacation. I check the weather.

Tomorrow

97 degrees.

Feels like 105.

I stare at the forecast then at my air conditioner then at the freezer; and we all cry a little on the inside. There are moments in life when a person must accept that some forces are beyond human control.

Nature.

Fate.

The New York City subway system.

And apparently my electric bill.

I don’t know exactly what sacrifice Heat Miser requires to leave New York City alone but I’m willing to negotiate.

I’ll give him candles.

I’ll give him money.

I’ll give him 3B and the tenants

Whatever it takes.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m switching sides.

Cold Miser can have the city.

Give me snow.

Give me ice.

Give me freezing wind blasting between skyscrapers hard enough to rearrange my face.

I will never complain about winter again.

And yeah…I know that’s a lie.

But it’s August.

I’m dehydrated.

And the heat has made all of us say things we don’t mean.